


Speak No Evil

by astrologista



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: 10k of pure whump dont at me, Confessions, Crying, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Drama, Gen, Lies, Memories, References to Depression, Truth, Truth Serum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22081663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrologista/pseuds/astrologista
Summary: Tim gets hit with truth serum.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 28
Kudos: 413





	Speak No Evil

**Author's Note:**

> Tim on truth serum, basically. And also he cries several times.  
> And no, he doesn't like it, and no, this isn't a fun/goofy/fluff fic. Here be whump and angst.  
> He's not in the hands of villains or anything, though. Just his weird family and it's... awkward, to say the least.  
> If that is a problem, please consider your options before continuing.

The truth hurts. Especially now, and especially for Tim.

It's been a difficult year for Tim Drake. He's no longer Robin, he's lost an organ, and he's tasked with running a multinational conglomerate at seventeen.

Not to mention losing everyone that ever mattered to him. And then gaining (most of) them back again.

Nightwing can be trusted - maybe? Every person in Tim's life is a question mark, now. And there's not a single one he trusts completely. Just question marks, ambiguity, and confusion. Maybe he's repaired those broken bonds with Nightwing, a little. (He's his brother and he'll always be there for him.) But old wounds still ache, and while Tim can forgive, it's difficult to forget having your entire identity seized and resold to someone else without your input.

Bruce is back.  
From the grave.  
And he's also not to be trusted.

It's in the little memories, the fleeting snapshots of moments, that Tim can sort of remember what things used to be like, before Bruce disappeared (died?). An entirely different life, a life with hope and trust and precious naivete. A life with honest people and heroic deeds, nightly flights of bravery and wonder with a team he knows is on his side. With friends who don't hover or cajole or constantly, constantly try to get inside his head.

Just little memories.  
The screech of a bat.  
Spirit gum that sticks too tight.  
Fast cars, fast motorcycles.  
C-listers with ketchup guns.

It used to be fun, it used to be something real. And Tim is still a hero, and he'll never give that up. But most of the nightly operations are too hollow, now. There's no music to put to the plot. There's no knowing who's on the side of right any more, it's never ever black and white (as if it ever was). Everything is gray, and that's not how Tim likes it. He's not going to compromise and lean to the other side - he'll never be that person. So everything's going to be hit lists and to-do lists and lists that track those lists, and everything's going to be all right.

Tim isn't falling apart. Really! He's fine. He's doing just fine. Even after losing them, even after losing everyone and being alone and trying desperately to learn how to grow up on his own.

Dad, Dana, Conner, Bart, Stephanie.  
Bruce.

They're back. Mostly. Except for Dad, and Dana. He's an orphan, now. Tim's never going to forget sprinting up the stairs to his door and pulling the Robin gear off his body like it's poisonous and stumbling into his apartment to find his father's bleeding body on the floor, with a glinting boomerang sticking out of it, bloody and horrible, where there hadn't been one some minutes before. He's never going to forget falling to his knees and screaming for it all to be undone, unable to escape the smell of blood and death, until Batman's arms and dark cape go all around him, holding him fast, and block out the glinting and the nonexistent noise, replacing it with sweet nothings - until Tim realizes that Bruce is the only father he's going to have left, he's going to be his everything now, with all of his impossible expectations and exacting standards, his mentor boss teacher father - _Batman_ -

In his dreams, the puddle of blood is as big as a pond, and there's a bat somewhere, taunting him.  
_Being an orphan is the gauntlet to being one of them, you know._

And that memory just makes Tim want to vomit.  
And it's a distraction.  
So he pushes it away and goes on patrol.

\--------------------------------------------

Poison Ivy really, really wants to know where they've taken her seedling samples.

They're not _good_ seedling samples - or at least, not _benign_ \- they can grow through concrete and take down buildings as they grow, taking only minutes to reach full maturity. Apparently Ivy doesn't care for new affordable housing high-rises in Gotham, when they're cutting away forested areas in order to build in the Gotham suburbs.

Tim really could've been more careful. All it took was a cloud of spores to knock him unconscious - stupid, careless. Unnecessary.

And now he was in real trouble, trapped in Ivy's greenhouse, where her vines had him chained to a wall. Another Boy Hostage situation, another scenario Tim thought he'd outgrown years ago. Ivy is taking her sweet, sweet time with this.

"Defiant, eh? Oh my." Ivy laughs, vines and plants jiggling as if chuckling along. "Well, we've got... ways of making you talk, boy." she smirks, snapping her fingers with a sudden command. The plants around Tim react with ferocious strikes.

The barbed vines sting the skin of Tim's arm as they swipe down, taking a chunk of flesh with them that makes Tim gasp and cry out. They leave something behind that burns like fire... definitely a toxin, something molten and sharp. She's not kidding, either - she'd tear him apart to find her precious plants. But Red Robin won't talk - or rather, can't, if he wanted to - the pain is taking his breath away.

Ivy doesn't have enough time to gloat, though, because that's when the greenhouse skylight shatters into shards, as Nightwing makes a dramatic entrance, ever the performer. Right now, Tim could care less who his savior is, and Dick is just as good as anyone; besides, they've played this scene before. Many times.

After Plant Lady is subdued and the paddy wagon shows up to clean up the mess, Nightwing and Red Robin watch said cleanup from a nearby rooftop. Tim's mouth is a straight line, his body's rigid, arms obscured under the cape, and nothing betrays that he's just been mauled by a _plant_. It was a bad wound, deep and painful, but it's nothing he couldn't stitch up himself back at his own hideout. He'll have to do a check for toxic substances, as well. Time to bail...

Nightwing is one of the best at picking up on tells. "You all right, Red?" he asks, looking closely at his brother. 

"Yeah." Tim returns quickly, with a grin. "I'm just fine."

Dick just grants him a soft smile back, not patronizing, but more than a little concerned. "Let's go and make sure of that, hm?"

\--------------------------------------------

Tim has little choice but to go back to the Cave, with Dick. The Cave wasn't exactly Tim's favorite hangout anymore - it was a place just for Dick and Damian and Bruce, now. No matter how many times they reassured him that he was welcome, the place just didn't feel the same as before, back when he was the only Robin to skulk around here, and there was only one Batman.

A rather neurotic Batman, an enigma of a man, and a force to be reckoned with. Tim is astonished at how easy it's been to avoid talking with Bruce on any deep level over the past few months. All Bruce seems to do now is jetset around the world, building a network of heroes wherever he goes. He calls it Batman Incorporated. He spends an inordinate amount of time on the Watchtower, in space, and everywhere else, except Gotham. Sadly enough, Tim had been CC'd on more Wayne Co. emails from Bruce Wayne than he'd had conversations with him in the past month.

And that was fine. Really. _It was fine._

So when Tim sees him again, he's not even surprised Bruce is tense - he's always tense. Grim. Upset with Tim's mistakes, Tim can only assume. The same kind of rookie mistakes that would've seen Tim thrown out of the Cave on Day 1, getting needlessly kidnapped and remaining unable to defend himself. Day. 1. Stuff. _Good going, Tim Drake._

Bruce is as terse as usual, drawing Tim's blood, going through the motions, he's seen all this before. To Tim's dismay, Alfred's on leave and that means Bruce is going to patch him up, a process that Tim knows from experience is none too painless, but should be equally gentle, at least. "Your blood workup will tell us what Ivy injected you with. The database of possible contaminants is getting larger by the year, so we'll need to wait about an hour for the results." Tim nods silently, knowing all this, of course. He still doesn't quite know what Ivy gave him, but the "ways of making you talk" is pretty worrying and seems to point to sedatives, or...

Bruce just doesn't even ask, as usual. He just takes an antiseptic-soaked rag, clinically assessing the deep cuts on Tim's forearm before cleaning them, not roughly, but methodically - he has to avoid getting any more of that toxic substance into the wounds. Tim doesn't even bother to brace for pain, just bites his lip - it doesn't bother him, and he's had worse, _just shut up and get this over with Drake_...

"Ow." Tim doesn't even recognize his own voice at first. It sounds weak, needy. The word had slipped right out without Tim's permission, and for a second he had to simply blink, astonished. It just came out, just like that. _How could that be?_ Involuntary red rose into his cheeks - great. Once Bruce was on the trail of any discomfort in anyone...

"I'm sorry, Tim. I know it stings." Bruce murmurs, clipped, but gentle.

Quickly but thoroughly, Bruce finishes his cleaning job and Tim has to bite his lip hard, because the gashes are a little deeper than they should be, and he's seeing stars. And by the time he's done, there are tears on Tim's face, and Tim can't remember how they got there. Bruce doesn't say a word, just sort of appears with a tissue, which Tim takes. This is dumb. He's not little anymore, and he's way too old to cry at something like this.

Bruce only has to evaluate Tim's wounds for a second before he makes the determination. They're deep cuts. "Stitches." he says, and Tim nods in response, knowing there's really no way out of this. He does flinch a little while Bruce is prepping the needle. "Has to be done, son." Bruce says quietly, and that's enough to keep Tim distracted for a little while - he can't remember the last time Bruce has called him "son". It's not something he used to do too regularly, but it wasn't infrequent, after the adoption, or even before it. The local anasthetic goes in, and Tim can't help but whine - it feels hot and cold at the same time. Tim can only think he hasn't given him enough, though - every stitch is biting at him, even though Bruce is fast and expert at them.

When he's finished, a bandage goes around Tim's arm, Bruce wrapping it not too tight, but firmly enough to stay in place and keep some pressure on the wound area. Bruce isn't new to this, what with patching little Robins and himself countless times before. And with that, Tim can only hope that Bruce is finally, blessedly done fussing over him for the night. Bruce seems satisfied with his work and finally turns Tim's arm loose. "I'll get you an icepack for the swelling." he says, turning to retrieve one.

Tim wants to say "No, I'm fine. Thank you for patching me up.", like a normal seventeen-year-old would, a response carefully chosen to get Bruce to just _leave him alone already_ , but "It still really, really hurts." comes out instead.

Now Tim knows something's wrong with his head. When would he ever, ever say that? Especially to Bruce? He doesn't have to know that. He doesn't need to know that. And, on top of that, it's embarrassing. What is he, three? Tim's starting to feel dazed. Hopefully, this is just a nightmare.

Tim blinks. Bruce just looks concerned and a little surprised, raising his eyebrows - Tim's a tough kid, after all - but he also looks like alarm bells are firing off and he has to do something about it. It plucks at his fatherly instincts, is all, and just the way Tim phrases it is concerning.

"I'm going to get some ice and a painkiller for you, Tim. Hang in there for just a minute." Bruce says slowly, retreating to go collect those items. Tim just blinks and quickly looks away from that fatherly gaze of concern. Something about it just makes him uneasy. (Maybe it reminds him too much of being cradled, of boomerangs, of the tacky feeling of drying blood on his hands. How could he bear having Bruce that close to him ever again, after _that_? It's all too painful, too tainted.) 

Tim waits until he thinks Bruce is out of earshot before whispering "Thank you." Only the bats chitter back in response.

\--------------------------------------------

Nightwing just hovers, like he doesn't know what else to do with himself. 

And Tim just hopes Nightwing'll busy himself elsewhere, as he lies supine on a treatment bed in the Cave, where he's been mandated to stay put and not move his afflicted arm at all. He hasn't been feeling... right, or quite himself. Everything seems blurry and sluggish, including his tongue which seems to have disconnected from his brain in a very worrying way. _So this is how it feels to be very, very drunk._ Ivy could have hit him with anything, could be a sedative, or a neurotoxin. A slow-acting one. But that's unlikely, if Ivy had wanted Red Robin dead, he'd be foaming at the mouth and passing out within a few seconds.

No, her only goal had been to _interrogate_ Red Robin...

Tim's slowly putting the pieces together, even in this sluggish state, when Dick interrupts his train of thought.

"Hey, pal. Arm hurt, still?" Dick's sympathetic smile could charm elephants - he's been through this many times before, being whacked by something or other on patrol and being laid up in the Cave is just a routine occurrence for him.

"Yeah." Tim replies, quietly, as he picks at the bandage Bruce wrapped it in. He still doesn't like talking to Dick, even after everything. They love each other, but they just can't be as open as they were, when they were Nightwing and Robin. Nightwing and Red Robin are different. And Tim knows brevity is key to avoiding long and awkward conversations.

"Poor Timmers." Dick just runs a hand through Tim's hair. "Better hold it still, you don't want whatever it is to be moving through your bloodstream any faster."

"I know that." Tim doesn't mean to snap, but it's like he's starting to lose control, and that's becoming increasingly worrying. "A Boy Hostage never forgets, you know, how to deal with being kidnapped and poisoned."

"Been there, done that! Now that makes me nostalgic for the good old days." Dick sighs.

"You mean like when you were Robin?"

"Oh, yeah. When did I not get kidnapped?" Dick smiles, like there's something he's trying to get through to Tim but he doesn't quite know how to get it right. "But you know what? Bruce was always there to save me. Even when I was angry with him. Just like he found you tonight, Tim. He was scanning security cameras all night looking out for you, swearing up and down about how you need to start keeping your tracker beacon on again. But he found you, and he sent me to come help you. And yes, you did need our help, and that's okay -"

Tim has to wonder if Dick's ever _not_ looking for an opening to mend all the fences, forever. There's a good response for this, here, somewhere, and for Tim it's _"We've been over this. A million times, Dick. I couldn't have kicked R'as' ass without you, without everyone. I'm not like Batman, I don't work alone. Lesson learned. Aesop over."_

But instead, Tim says something else and he can't believe what he says.

"You know what, Dick? If you think that, if we're really one big happy family, maybe you shouldn't have just taken Robin away from me. You're the one who kicked me off this team, right? Going on about how you 'still needed me'. Which is it?!" Tim quickly claps a hand over his mouth, a few tears streaming with regret and more than a little mortification as it sinks in what he's just said. That had been completely uncalled for, but the words had sprung up completely unbidden.

Dick looks pretty confused and hurt by this point, as if he can't understand where any of this is coming from. Dick's always had the gift of very perceptive social intelligence, but Tim's a good liar - he's kept his heart hidden and now it's pouring out.

"Timmy, that's not - you just -" and Dick is _reaching_ for him, but Tim flinches back.

And then Bruce is here, and he does loom large. 

_How long was he listening? Was he listening?_

"Tim's upset. I... think he's in a lot of pain." Dick reports. _Like I'm not even in the room._ Tim muses, as he tries to find something interesting in staring at the Cave floor.

"Yes." Bruce returns. And, "Tim, I want you to take this. It's a painkiller." Bruce hands him a white pill and a little paper cup of water as a chaser, and Tim can't remember the last time they've done this, because Tim's made a concerted effort to avoid medical treatment in this Cave since Bruce's temporary death. It's just too much. They hover too close and ask one too many questions.

The last and only time was when he had broken limbs and lacerations from being kicked through a plate-glass window from twenty stories up to save all of Bruce's money, and his company, and his friends.

He should probably just cooperate, but something takes over and you know what, he's not going to do anything Bruce says.

"I don't... I'm not gonna take that." Tim returns limply, not even sure where his responses are coming from anymore. It's like someone's taken control of his brain, but he almost welcomes the opportunity to not think. This is almost certainly the work of whatever Ivy gave him, but... 

"Tim. I think you need it." Bruce replies evenly, but somewhat surprised. Very rarely has he ever seen Tim be this petulant, this stubborn.

"Back OFF!" Tim hisses.

Bruce doesn't bother to say a word, then. He lets go, he backs off, and he backs away from Tim.

"Bruce, come on. Let's let Tim get some rest." Dick says quickly, standing up from his seat next to the bed. He can see pretty easily that Bruce isn't going to be strong-arming Tim into taking anything, so any further arguing is just going to cause unnecessary stress.

Bruce leaves the pill and the water on a side table near the cot, briskly following Dick out of the area. He knows it's better to pick his battles, now. Tim can almost hear the eggshells they're walking on as they walk away. That hurts a little, too. But who wouldn't? He's just yelled at them, anyway. 

"Sorry, sorry..." Tim whispers, near silent, shutting his eyes helplessly, hoping to God he'll sleep. But there's no answer.

\--------------------------------------------

"What a time for Alfred to visit his family in London." Dick sighed.

The analysis of Tim's blood is nearly done. But it hasn't stopped Bruce from trying to speculate about the contents. It's clear enough that something in Ivy's attack is affecting Tim's behavior, severely. This is his son, Tim, who never complains, who is fearless, who's been so oddly _cooperative_ these past few months that he's managed to disappear from sight. Tim has his own operation, now, with his own lair and a computer system of his own. He's grown so independent, so strong, but one thing he hasn't done is ask for help.

Bruce just checks and re-checks the analysis readouts. 90% complete. "It might be something that makes him a little more sensitive to pain. He wasn't very tolerant of me patching him up."

Dick raises his eyebrows. "That's... not really usual. Tim never complains." It's true. It's been years since Tim has done anything more than make a wry joke at his own physical pain.

"Ivy's plants... I'm surprised they were able to damage Red Robin's armor." Bruce observes, deep in thought. He'll have to talk to Tim later about new Kevlar reinforcements focusing on limb areas of the costume.

Drumming his fingers on the Batcomputer console, Dick then makes an observation that causes Bruce to double-take. "I mean, considering his asplenia, you'd think he'd take a few more precautions." 

Bruce hopes to God he hasn't heard right. "His what?" he asks, mouth dry.

Dick squints like he's not sure what Bruce is getting at. "Asplenia, you know, he has an absence of the spleen."

"I know what asplenia is." Bruce rejoins.

"...Wait. Oh my god, did Tim not tell you how he lost his spleen? We... we didn't know until we saw that huge scar, you know - Bruce?"

And oh, God. These are the reasons Bruce worries, why he can't just leave well enough alone. Something in his world flips and inverts, sideways. The spleen isn't a major organ; you can live without it, but the idea that Tim could lose an organ and not breathe a word of it is, well. It's more than troubling, to say the least. Immediately Bruce starts mentally evaluating reams of medical literature that he'd needed to devour in his college years, spleen function, the immune system, there was so much he had to know, needed to know. Tim had lost an organ and hadn't even bothered to tell him. Something was wrong with that, very wrong.

Bruce isn't happy about it. Not at all. "It seems there's a lot Tim hasn't been telling me." 

\--------------------------------------------

Tim blinks.

Everything's become so hazy, almost like a bad trip but he's still plenty lucid. It's been a few hours, probably. Or maybe a few minutes. His arm throbs. The ceiling spins.

Now Bruce and Dick probably hate him - great. He's been acting like a spoiled brat all night, but it's not really by choice. Maybe his words had been cutting, had been a little desperate. But there was something deeply satisfying about saying them. Voicing his pain. Giving words to the feelings. But they were private, at the same time - things he didn't want to trouble them with, things he _didn't want to get into right now_. It was too soon, he'd deal with it later, or maybe never.

Confused, Tim just moans. "What's happening to me... what's happening..."

Tim's just closed his eyes again when the Batcomputer dings with its completion of the blood analysis test results, from across the Cave. That was definitely worth investigating, so Tim struggles up from the treatment bed and staggers over to where he might find some answers. Bruce and Dick seem to have conspicuously disappeared from the general area for the time being. Which is pretty good, considering. Blearily, he blinked up at the Batcomputer's screen to read the result.

The analysis results read clear as day, one hundred percent complete, with the detection of a foreign substance...

"Sodium thiopental C11H17N2NaO2S"

Eleven atoms of carbon, seventeen of hydrogen, two of nitrogen and two of oxygen, combined with one of sodium and one of sulfur.

Sodium thiopental. Otherwise known as truth serum.

_Oh, fucking shit._

Tim's first thought is that he needs to get the hell out of here and fast. There are more than a few things that he doesn't want Bruce knowing - ever. This is possibly as bad as it gets. Typically, the effects of sodium thiopental were no more than just making the victim groggy and uncoordinated enough to engage in nonsensical, string of consciousness chatter. But any formulation of Ivy's was guaranteed to be more than one hundred percent effective, ensuring that her victims would give their absolute truths to any question.

For Tim, it may as well be fear toxin. The truth was his mortal enemy.

He needs to get as far away from the Manor - as far away from Bruce - as possible, until this wears off.

Tim turns to make for his motorcycle - parked in the bay - which will ensure a quick getaway, if he can _just_ -

He runs right into Bruce.

_Fuck no. Is this really happening?_

Bruce isn't brooking any nonsense right now. "Ivy gave you truth serum, didn't she?"

The answer comes disgustingly automatically. "That's what the analysis results say."

Bruce closes his eyes for a moment. "That explains it. Tim, please go lie down before you fall down."

"I'd prefer not to." Tim declares, helping himself to the Batcomputer chair. It's big and comfy and spins around, after all.

Surprisingly, Bruce doesn't complain about that, but he does walk closer. "Tim, this isn't a good time. You're impaired and I shouldn't be talking to you about this right now, but it can't wait. It's a safety issue."

Tim doesn't hesitate to interrupt his lecture. "How come I haven't seen you in months, Bruce? This is the first time in quite a while we've talked about anything, isn't it?"

Bruce blinks and mildly replies. "Well, I've been busy with Batman Inc., as you know. It seems you've been taking over most of Batman's work yourself, Tim. Between running my company and patrolling on your own, you've been busier than you'd care to admit."

"It's true." Tim admits.

Bruce goes on, "Sometimes being busy... sometimes it means we're not careful. We make mistakes. And sometimes those mistakes can lead to permanent, damaging consequences. Tim, what I mean to say is..."

"Mistakes? I've made tons of mistakes. Let's go over all my mistakes, shall we? Why not? I'm pretty sure coming here tonight was one of them, don't you think?" Tim fires back. He can't stand to have Bruce patronizing him this way, it's demoralizing.

Bruce looks apologetic, but in order to avoid prolonging things any further, he has to cut to the chase. "Tim. I had to learn from Dick - about your spleen."

"No." It wasn't a denial - that'd be a lie, and lying was the one thing Tim wasn't currently equipped to do properly. It was more a moan of despair, of being found out. He needs to say it, needs to say _Oh, Bruce, I was going to tell you later. Really! It just slipped my mind._ to throw him off the trail. But he can't. It's a lie. "Oh my god. I'm so sorry." Tim mutters. He's caught.

"How did this happen?" Very clipped. Very formal.

Tim gulps. "I got stabbed." That memory is tainted, too. But he can't stop himself from going on. "I went to the Middle East to find you. I... I had no choice... but to work with the League of Assassins... one of their enemies was this guy, the Widower, and he stabbed me. In the side. I... I almost died." _Very classy, Drake._ Nope, that explanation wouldn't worry Bruce _at all_.

Bruce looks more like he's the one being stabbed. All this, and he never knew. "The surgery?" Bruce asks pointedly.

"Not a hospital. ...League of Assassins."

"I see." Bruce looks up like he's thinking. Maybe R'as Al Ghul just gained a few points in his book. "He has some of the best surgeons. It must have been absolutely necessary."

Tim is silent. This is an interrogation, and whether he's meant to or not, Bruce seems to be taking advantage of this truth serum to wring things out of Tim. Acting like the conversation couldn't wait, shrouding things under the basis of urgency. It had subterfuge written all over it.

"Doesn't really matter, because I'm handling it." Tim finally grumbles, which is true. He takes supplements to make up for the compromised immune system, he's changed his diet. Everything was in order.

The look on Bruce's face does indicate that he doesn't appreciate Tim's flippancy at all. "No, Tim, this is serious - you need to be taking medications, I need to know you've had your flu shot, that you're eating - "

And that's about all Tim can take of that. "For God's sake, I'm already doing all of that! It's my private _fucking_ business, okay? I can follow baseline medical instructions, Bruce. I'm not. A child."

"I know that!" Bruce rejoins. He doesn't yell, but his voice gets that rough quality that it rarely does when he gets exasperated. "I know that. You are... an emancipated minor." Bruce picks his words very carefully, a privilege Tim would really like to regain right now. "It. Would have been nice to know about any changes to your health, especially one so major. Just for my -"

"For your _what_ , Bruce? For the new database you're working on to catalog every other microbe that I inhale while going about my daily business? Or just the one detailing all of my weaknesses so you can take me down, if and when I ever go rogue?" The truth serum is loosening Tim's tongue, pulling words out of his _thoughts_ and spewing them haphazardly, like an angry drunk. Tim has to mourn his lack of control - it hurts not being able to manipulate the conversation the way he wants to. He _knows_ how to handle Bruce, ten ways to deflect and end this confrontation before it ever started. But he's too incapacitated to implement any of them.

It takes many long seconds for Bruce to respond to that, and when it comes, the response is quiet and strange, almost haunted. "...Just so I can know. If you're all right." Tim doesn't think he's ever heard Bruce be so quiet. And Bruce's eyes just flick, for less than a heartbeat, to the memorial case. Jason's. _Oh._

"Let me leave." Tim said quietly, the truth tripping off his tongue when he should probably be respectfully silent. This is a solution. Just removing himself from the whole equation. "Before I say something I regret. Just let me go."

That was something Bruce wasn't altogether good at. Letting go.  
And it was probably also the wrong thing to say. Especially when Bruce is looking at the memorial case like this. _Just let me go._  
Tim wished for his verbal expertise back. He wanted to parry, he wanted to _disarm_.  
He's lied to Batman. He knows how to handle Bruce. And it's not fair.

Bruce turns to him swiftly, a firm response in hand. "No, Tim. If I can't trust you to tell me when something's wrong, then I can't let you go anywhere with that arm. It could get infected if you don't care for it properly." He nods, and this is the final word. This is a situation Tim has always dreaded; when his own stubbornness meets with Bruce's, Tim always loses for some reason. It makes him feel small, like he's lost a prizefight. He was the one to untangle Bruce Wayne at his lowest point, he was the one to persuade Batman that he needs a Robin. He knew this man like no one else, but to obey his orders based on a miscommunication was a low, low point for Tim to sink to.

Tim just flushed scarlet and looked down. There was no arguing with Bruce in this state, but it was more than a little humiliating for him to imply that Tim couldn't take care of himself. And nothing could be further from the truth.

He'd done nothing but take care of himself. What other choice had he had?

\--------------------------------------------

He does allow Bruce to walk him back to a treatment bed, anyway.

Bruce nods towards the door, which leads to the Manor. "I'll leave. We don't have to talk. Let this run its course."

It sounds altogether tempting, honestly. But then. A nagging feeling had been bothering Tim, since seeing those analysis results. Truth serum. A formulation guaranteed to get to the truth. There was still a chance, a small one. There was something Tim _could_ do, with the wheels turning like this. It was risky, but it may be worth it.

The very thought of unburdening anything in this state, consciously or unconsciously, made Tim feel queasy. But, logically, if he let this chance go by, the window would close, and the words would get in the way again. He wouldn't be able to explain himself anymore. And the longer it went on, the worse it'd be. But all he had to do was make one more gambit, one more chance to use this truth serum to his advantage. As long as he told the truth about, well... more _surface_ topics, it would be all right. It'd throw Bruce off the scent. And it could twist this situation to his favor, make them think he's shared a few secrets, so they can forget about the rest. Maybe the shame, the scolding, the self-pity would finally stop, if he could just tell a little tiny truth.

Just a little unburdening. Just the tiniest, littlest bit. It would be okay.

"But there's something I want to say." Tim says, as his adoptive father is already walking away. 

Stopping, Bruce slowly placed a more direct question. If Tim was under the influence of Ivy's drugs, then this wasn't right at all. But, if it's the truth...

"Are you sure it's something you want to tell me?" Bruce asks him, not unkindly.

Tim nods, slowly, wheels turning. Carefully. "Yes. I want to tell you. And I need to. And if it takes a freaking truth serum to get me to... you know... I'm okay with it. Just let me say my piece. Please. Before I can't anymore."

Bruce walks to the chair next to Tim's cot, sitting down. Tim can't read his face at all. 

It takes a deep breath and a lot of summoning, but Tim's always been brave. The wording doesn't really come out the way he intends, but it's swiftly getting to be too late to back out now. "I know that I've been... well, acting strange, even before this. It's like this serum is just... magnifying feelings I've already had. I've been trying to seek comfort from you. I've been resentful towards Dick, yes. I've been... afraid. Afraid to come back here. After everything we've been through, I know this is home, you guys are my family, and you always will be. We've been over all that. But, even despite that... I'm still just afraid. It's why I don't call you, or talk to Dick anymore."

There's really nothing Bruce wants to know more than what it is Tim's afraid of, what's making him pull back and hold back so much from them. So that he can fix it. Tim's his son. And Bruce has become a master of fighting nightmares. Whatever it is, he'll tear it apart if it makes Tim feel safer.

But he can't ask the question, so. This is something he has to let Tim guide on his own initiative, do of his own free will.

 _Carefully, carefully. Precision is key._ Tim thinks to himself. "And I'm sorry if I snapped at you, earlier, but y'know, you may be able to understand my point of view, a little. I think we both know that things have definitely... changed, since before. Like I said. I've... been afraid. Afraid to share some of my thoughts with you. I never know if it's okay." Tim murmured. "Like, for example. I just remembered. It was my birthday. And as a gift, you decided it would be fun to just, I-I don't know, kick a hole through my self-esteem or something. You really wanted me to believe that one of our friends was going to betray us. You had me, unable to sleep, completely neurotic, doing psychological workups on Barbara, Dick, everyone in our family. Y-you didn't make anyone else go through that. Just me. Why? Wh-Why would you do that?" This is something Tim's wanted to ask for years now, as directly as possible, and he's under no illusions that he's going to get a straight answer, but maybe, just maybe, it'll put Bruce's actions into some kind of perception. Force him to understand where the distance is coming from.

But Tim can tell that might be in vain. Bruce's eyebrows are knitted like Tim's just posed him with a difficult puzzle; Tim can almost see the gears turning like he almost gets it, but not quite, as if he can't connect the dots of his past shenanigans with Tim's current reticence. "Tim, I... that was important, that was detective work. It took me weeks to compose that scenario. I... suppose I thought you'd appreciate the challenge. I know that I... didn't pose it as a training exercise, maybe I should've..." Bruce just trails off, almost like he fears going too far down this rabbit hole is a mistake. 

It's not the answer Tim had wanted, though. Bruce is never, ever going to realize the truth unless he's directly confronted with it. Inordinately frustrated, Tim's nearly driven to tears, and it's too soon for that. And he's rudely reminded of why he and Bruce do not have these conversations. Miserable, Tim whispers "It's impossible for me. It's just... it's just impossible..."

"What's impossible, Tim?" Bruce asks him, rather pointedly, as if he's trying to get to the bottom of this. Now things are starting to taste like an interrogation - that's not good.

Very bad. Things are starting to slide towards panic. "It's impossible for me to know if I can trust you or not." Tim responds, in a rush.

Bruce has to get through several emotions before he can respond to that. But first, he wordlessly reaches forward to cup Tim's face, and Tim doesn't pull back. The rumble of his voice is tremulous, but it's serious; it's sure. "Tim. I know some of the things I've done haven't made. A lot of sense. But believe me when I tell you that there's a reason, always." 

Tim waves his hand away. "How do I know that, though? How do I ever know if anything you say is just another test, another trap? You know, Bruce, every single lesson you ever taught me as Batman had one underlying theme. Trust no one. I was only thirteen, and that's the message you decided to drill into my head. Don't. Trust. Anyone."

Bruce doesn't say anything back. He's studying Tim. Like he's starting to understand.

"I'm just doing what you told me to do!" Tim shouted, the sound echoing and wavering, dissolving into tears. He'd just wanted Bruce to realize, for once. He'd just wanted to tell him while he had the chance, before distance and words and lies and silences got in the way again. But Tim was starting to realize that Bruce was probably incapable of giving him the closure step, the reasoning, the... something. Reassurance. A kind word. Anything.

"You're right, Tim." Bruce says lowly, finally. "You are."

As if that made _any_ sense. They were empty words to Tim's ears, and they near enraged him. The next words that spill out are unbidden and fling themselves from somewhere deep in Tim's chest, and he can feel the empty spot left behind when he speaks them. It's not the worst feeling. "You wanted me to believe that the only way w-was to trust no one. That's what you _gave_ me. And you weren't here, so I - I embraced that. I knew I shouldn't, but it was all I had left of you!" It hurts to have it said, but part of it is cathartic, relieving.

Bruce just sort of looks into the distance, then. "This isn't how I want to have this conversation."

 _No, no. You don't get to do that._ That hurt like a slap to the face. Bruce was really trying to shut him down, when he'd finally gotten off his chest the question he'd been longing to ask. There had to be a reason, a reason to feed Tim an immersive curriculum of deceptions and lies and contingencies. There had to be a reason behind the pain it had caused, there had to be _something_. Tim nearly chokes. "Really? Well, neither do I, Bruce. But here we are." If there was a course here, they were locked on it.

Bruce is getting up, now. "You're drugged." he says simply.

"I know that." Tim grinds out. "But _this_ isn't going to just go away." He wasn't talking about the serum.

For a moment, Tim is terrified that Bruce is about to walk out of here without another word, and that'll be the end of it, possibly forever. Bruce doesn't leave, though. There's a drawer where they keep a variety of medications and drugs. Bruce pulls it out and picks out a vial, prepping a syringe with it.

Tim blinks. "Oh my god. You better not tell me you've had an antidote on you this whole time. Bruce, I will - I will -" 

Bruce closes the drawer, bringing the syringe and vial back over to Tim's bed. "No, this is sodium thiopental. I've only used this once, by the way. It was Lady Shiva. I'll leave the remainder of this vial with you for your analysis later. Quantitative evidence, Tim. It's the only truth there is." He places the vial on the side table. 

Then. Tim just watches with wide eyes as Bruce injects himself with the contents of the syringe, like it's an everyday occurrence for him. Batman has actually just injected himself with truth serum.

"You didn't. Bruce." Tim sighs, shocked out of crying or any further anger. "Are you for real?"

"Wait." Bruce instructs, settling himself back in the chair.

After a few minutes of one of the most uncomfortable silences Tim has ever experienced, Bruce speaks. Tim listens. He can't altogether believe this is happening.

"You know, you have something no one else has, Tim." His speech is only a little slurred. Otherwise, he looks as sure and in control as he ever has. "When I trained Dick, and Jason, it wasn't just about martial arts or looking at fingerprints. I had to train them to think critically. To understand the criminal mind. I trained them to think like me, or as I would."

"Of course, Dick and Jason are different, different from me and from each other. We see things differently based on our experience, our own morals, our psychology. But you, Tim. You're different from that, even. You're the one I trained to be a detective."

Bruce pauses then, and he looks at Tim half fondly, half sadly.  
Tim can't bring himself to speak, here. This is territory they don't get into.

"There's so much potential in you. So much. I saw that it wouldn't do any good to teach you how to think like me. What good could that do? Who else could discover the identity of Batman and Robin? What you did as a child, Tim, government agents and trained police could not. You thought so far outside the box, you weren't even within the limits of traditional detective work anymore. Sherlock Holmes could learn something from you, Tim. If I was going to teach you, I had to give you something else. A challenge. Something to strive for."

"But that wasn't all there was to it, Tim. There was more. Much more." And Bruce is looking at the case, then - the memorial case. Jason's memorial case. "It was all different. After Jason. How could things stay the same?" Bruce continued, like he was reliving an old, unpleasant memory. 

"I kept telling myself that I had to hold you up to a continually higher and higher standard. That I could never, ever let my guard down. Never let things get too easy. Or I'd lose you. Because you'd die."

Tim had already known it, but he'd never heard it like this. Never like this. Tim just shakes his head, wanting to say that he'd learned enough from Jason's legacy, from having that suit hanging in that case every time he passed by. The words did not come.

"You thought Robin training was difficult, didn't you?" Bruce continues.

"I had to tear everything down and build it back up again for you, Tim. Because if I was going to remake another partner, I was going to make him perfect. I could accept nothing else. At first I began to resent you, Tim. I resented having to spend so much time calibrating every aspect of your training. It obsessed me. But you know what, Tim? It gave me something to focus on. Something to work on. You were... you were my project. And every time I thought of something I'd done wrong when I was training Jason, I could think of how I'd fix that with you. I'd think of all the horrible things that would never happen to you, because I wouldn't let them. I'd prepare you for each and every one."

Tim just lets him go on, almost afraid to speak. But he's not sure he wants to hear much more.

"You're more than just... a project, Tim. I realized that early on. That you had something special. And then I was worrying about you, the same way I worried about Dick, and... Jason. You became family, Tim. And then you became my son." Bruce smiles.

And, then he frowns. "You know, Jason was innocent. He didn't die because he was headstrong. He died because he was innocent. His own mother allowed him to be slaughtered." A beat. "I didn't want you to be innocent. Your mistrust is by design, Tim. And this - God. I hoped I could do a better job of explaining this to you, you can't understand some of this, Tim, and I wouldn't ask you to, it's mine to bear..."

Bruce just clears his throat and looks up. Tim's not sure if it's the drug making his eyes glassy or if it's tears.

"I lost Jason... I lost him. And I couldn't sleep. And I couldn't eat. Every ache and pain in my body seemed magnified a thousandfold. I was beyond saving at that point. I thought I was. It's the biggest reason that Bane was able to break my back, Tim. But you saved me. I thought I was gone, but you saved me."

And Bruce turned away, into the shadows, so that Tim couldn't see his face.

"Tim, if I ever lose you. If. I wouldn't come back from it. If I go through that grief one more time, I'll-"

They'd already plumbed too deep, and Tim could tell. Because Bruce went silent, and he didn't move, and the bats were silent for a full minute.

Tim already knew that this wasn't just about him, it was about Bruce and Bruce's parents and Jason and probably Dick, also. They'd all had fun making jokes and quips and digs about Bruce's trauma and his stoicism and how he never, ever let on to what he was going through at any point, but Tim could tell it wasn't a matter of avoiding feelings. Bruce already had feelings, enough to damn near kill him. And no, that didn't absolve him of everything in a blink, but for once Tim felt that Bruce could speak a language that he could _understand_ , that there was some kind of strange, convoluted reasoning or logic behind everything, everything that made Bruce, Bruce. And everything that made Tim, Tim, as well.

It's one of the worst silences Tim's ever heard. It takes Tim a moment to hear his own breathing, how it's ragged, and that's probably because he'd started crying a bit at some point during this, maybe because it was overwhelming, maybe out of some primal fear, he's not sure. Because... he just wishes he could have known it earlier, there had always been obvious reminders of it, the Hell that Bruce was continually going through. But he'd never really known it like this. How similar it was to his own pains, his own demons.

The similarity, between himself and Bruce, is too frightening, too disturbing. Fearful symmetry, like the Tyger from the poem. How could someone go so far to differentiate himself from another in the darkness, and still fail? Tim understood, but he wished he didn't.

This was what it came down to. Jack Drake had been his father, was still his father, and Tim still loved him. But Jack had never understood him. He had tried, but they were just too opposite. It didn't mean love wasn't there, but their relationship lacked kinship, lacked empathy, and that was the piece Tim had always felt was missing. He'd grown up feeling homesick in his own home because of it.

But here was Batman, an invincible force in the world. Always gets the bad guy. Always correct, always on the alert. Here was someone who wouldn't let him down, would stay right here in Gotham with him instead of jetsetting around the world, would let him _be himself_ without fear of judgement. Here, there was a father, too. And brothers, and a sister. And others, friends who cared about him, close and _real_. He could be someone here, the _hero_ he'd always idolized, a member of a family that _knew_ him.

He'd never really given much thought to Bruce Wayne, back then. He was just the man behind Batman, the man who had to be persuaded to take on another Robin, just an obstacle in Tim's way. But over time, as he learned more, Tim started to realize just who the man behind the mask was. He wasn't perfect, he was human - very human, in fact. He made mistakes, and had flaws, and was overprotective like a normal dad sometimes. And unlike a supernatural, invincible beast, he got injured. He could be hurt or even killed. Tim never forgot Bruce recovering, after his back was broken. Lying in a cot, covered in tubes and wires, fighting off imminent death. And not long after, Jack had suffered a similar fate, stuck in his coma. Two men he had once thought to be titans, when he'd ride on his father's shoulders, when he'd see Batman rappelling through the night so expertly, both laid to waste.

Tim would never be able to forget standing outside the hospital room, staring at his father's comatose body. Bruce, coming over to comfort him and hold him, as if he could somehow make it better... but he'd only made it worse, somehow, with his presence, with his darkness. And Tim really, truly hadn't wanted any of Bruce's comfort, after Jack died - that was something he went out of his way to avoid. It was too painful, to try to fit in those new feelings into the empty space left by the loss. It was too sudden. All he could do was associate Batman with blood, with death, that ever-expanding pool of blood...

So he didn't want to be comforted. Really.

But... and the thought, unfolding. 

Maybe he did need it. It just hadn't been the right time.

Maybe he would never fully understand Bruce Wayne, just as he couldn't comprehend what it's like to watch both of your parents shot down in front of you at eight years old. Just as he couldn't comprehend the pain of senselessly losing a child.

Maybe there was some of it he did understand, some of that horrifying darkness he'd been so terrified of. Maybe he'd been falling into its abyss for a while, joining Bruce in its despicable embrace. 

Tim can't say anything, nothing will suffice, but the words come tripping out from that deep space in his chest again, where they've been locked carefully away, precious but shameful secrets that for some reason, he must divulge. "We're... w-we're not that different, Bruce. I haven't told you this, n-not really. Wh-when I left, to find you. To search for you... I mean, I - I did a few things, some things I regret, because... I-I was in pain. I mean. It... was bad. You know? And I had already alienated everyone else. I was working with the fr... freaking League of Assassins! I was insane. There was nothing I wouldn't do to get you back. I lost my spleen and I didn't even care. I... I didn't care about myself anymore. God, all that mattered was proving I was right, proving I wasn't completely crazy. I was doing everything you told me to do and more, and it wasn't even... really working..." Tim isn't even sure if he's under the influence of the serum anymore, or if the pounding headache is just stemming from stress. And nothing he can say can even hold a candle to Bruce's trials, anyway, so why even...

The memories that swell up of that time can't be held back. The loneliness, the hotel rooms, the League, the nights spent convinced he was both insane and completely alone, the pain of not being able to call Dick or Barbara or Spoiler or Alfred or anyone, the pain of being stabbed and scarred and shot at, the fear of R'as tearing him apart from the inside out, the lying and the lying and the _lying_ to people he loved. And all he'd wanted from Bruce was a reason why, not just for the situation he'd been in, but for the way he'd acted, the way he'd needed to alienate himself for some bizarre reason, just because it'd been drilled into him so completely. He had half of an answer that he could somewhat comprehend, but somehow it wasn't enough.

"And... I lost my two best friends in this world, and I lost my dad, and then I lost Spoiler. And I lost you, and I couldn't- I just couldn't-" and Bruce is just holding Tim close, then. Just like he hasn't in forever, but he's there and he's alive, and he's not gone. For once the embrace doesn't feel like blood and death. He doesn't see the boomerang. It just feels like home, like hugging Bruce after he'd proposed the adoption, like _reality_.

It's grounding, and the memories swirling are only stirring up emotions, feelings of loneliness and terror that Tim can't seem to escape, except that Bruce is _here_ now. He's not gone, not lost in the cosmos any more. He's right here, holding Tim close in his arms, _because of Tim_ , and the closeness makes Tim cry for real, choking out a chorus of a truth that he is sure of, now - "I missed you... I missed you..."

Bruce doesn't shush him, just strokes his hair, is present and real, and that's more than enough for Tim.

"Robin... I wasn't Robin anymore." Tim whimpers, and something seems to unlock. That was what had sent him off the edge, screaming and throwing vases around, punching walls, until he'd sunk to the floor, gasping for precious breath. He'd been a mess then, and he was a mess now. That was one of the things he'd wanted to keep hidden from Bruce, though. That he'd been bitter. He'd tried to act like being Red Robin was his fun, new life. But there was so much more to it than that.

Bruce answers lowly, whispering, "It... it was for Damian's sake. It wasn't a rejection of you, I promise you that, Tim. It wasn't fair to you, the way it was handled - I've talked to Dick about -"

"No, I know... I'm sorry, I'm being selfish... I'm just... being selfish about this... it was for Damian, I know, and he's a good Robin..." Tim sobbed, gasping, clutching Bruce's sleeve.

"It's not selfish, Tim. It's not." Bruce answers, shifting Tim in his arms a little. Tim shakes his head. He's starting to believe, but it still...

Bruce whispers to him, then, into his ear - "You had a reason to grieve. You _have_ a reason to grieve. You didn't just lose your father, you didn't just lose your friends. You lost Robin... you lost yourself, Tim. And that's more than a reason to grieve. I'm sorry if it had to happen because of me, that wasn't right, it's not what I wanted for you. But you're alive, Tim. You're still here, thank God. You're finding yourself again."

That's the truth, Tim realizes. He may have lost some irreplaceable things. He'd followed his instincts, his neuroticism, his own personal obsessive nature, praying and hoping that it would lead him to Bruce. But now Bruce was here, and he was here. Compromised, but alive. And that was a start.

It takes a few minutes for Tim to get his breathing under control, for the tears to abate. By the time he's finished, the relief is very definite, like finally, finally scratching a very deep itch. He just shivers in it, for a moment, the feeling of being loved, and, somehow, even if imperfectly, understood. The secrets and lies twisting inside have quieted - some still remain. But, thankfully, things hadn't gone according to plan. Bruce had thrown Tim a curveball and Tim had ended up disclosing far more than he'd originally intended, but it had been worth the cost, if only for this feeling. Tim can't help but wonder at how much of his fears were simply the result of miscommunication, and he feels dumb as it dawns on him. Maybe Bruce needed the truth serum, too. Maybe there had never been any reason for concealment.

Bruce pulls the blanket from the treatment bed around Tim's shoulders and frowns. "Breathe through your nose. You're fine." Wasn't he breathing normally? Tim takes a second to realize that his shoulders are still shaking a bit and his breath is quick, as if he's been running a marathon. 

He still had more questions than answers. There were still things that didn't make any sense. But if Tim looked at himself reflected, (as in a mirror, darkly) he could almost see Bruce. There was an intersection between the two, of people doing desperate things, being desperate things, out of fear. But then there was _truth_ , and the truth was not the enemy. Instead, it attacked the fear, ravaging it to pieces. Truth had won.

It takes many minutes and a refresher on meditative breathing from Bruce for Tim to calm, but somehow he does, counting seconds off as his exhalations even out.

"Are you ready to sleep the rest of this off?" Bruce rumbles, looking for all the world like he hopes the answer is yes.

Tim could laugh. He really could. Things were far from okay, but...

"There's one more thing I wanted to just. Say." Tim has been waiting for this for a long time, and he's not going to let the opportunity slip away. "I'm not your Robin anymore, and that's okay." 

It was definitely a sad way to end things. But he had a new identity now, one of his own. He'd have to get around to altering the Red Robin suit, since it had been Jason's. Maybe one with more fingerstripes, but that was Dick's preferred style. He'd... he'd come up with something. He had his own hideout, his own rogues, his own niche in the city. He wasn't Batman, he wasn't Bruce, but one day, maybe he'd rival the World's Greatest Detective. At some point, he was going to have to accept that he was no longer Robin, and speaking it to Bruce made it real. It was more than a truth, it was a declaration of independence, and an acknowledgement of abdication. And truth though it was, it was something Tim would have fled the room at even the thought of _doing_ yesterday.

Bruce nodded. He understood what this meant. There was a twinge of sadness there, though - Tim could tell mainly by his eyebrows.

Then Bruce says "When I broke my back. Jean-Paul was the one wearing the Batman suit. I was helpless to do anything. It was as if I'd lost the only identity that mattered to me. All I could think about was how wrong he was for the job, how he was doing everything differently, everything wrong. That was troubling. But there was nothing I could do. I figured I'd have to move on somehow."

Tim purses his lips and huffs. "That's not the same."

"No, I suppose not. The point is, anyone can bring their own unique traits to a persona. Think of it as... a job role. Instead of working for me, you've spun off your own brand." Bruce's rare smile appears, and he ruffles Tim's hair like he used to do, a lifetime ago. "You make me so proud, Tim. Everything you do. When I see you, I see an independent, strong-willed young man who's ready to take the world by storm. You're going to do great things. I'm grateful to be here to witness them. I'm here because of you, Tim."

And, oh. _That._ Tim was never going to forget the warmth in his chest, that bloomed where discontent had made its home for months and months before. It spread all over him and there was no stopping it. Bruce's praise is never misplaced; rarer than gold, the diction and elocution are always flawless. As emotionally obtuse as he can be, Bruce didn't get to be a master detective without knowing something about psychology, so his praise is never flattery, never empty, if he's granting it to a student of his. 

Or to a son. 

He wouldn't say it if it weren't true.

The ambience is interrupted when Dick sighs from a short distance away, where God only knows how long he's been standing. "Know what I see? Two idiots doped up on truth serum. Go to bed. You guys are drunk."

\-------------------------------------------- epilogue

Tim felt exceedingly better after sleeping for a solid nine hours.

No more loose lips, at least.

He was able to smile at himself in the bathroom mirror and say "I'm a blonde." without any tells, so all's well.

Now he's sitting at the Batcomputer with this vial, the one Bruce left for him to analyze. The one that's supposed to be truth serum, the one Bruce used on himself.

Dick is here, too. Not hovering, but simply present, and it's a comfort. Tim's going to need some kind of buffer between him and Bruce for a little while - not too long. They have much more to discuss, though it will be nicer if they have Alfred there to mediate things, at least.

Dick's emotional openness is the direct antithesis of Bruce's. He is not ambiguous about this. "Tim, look, we're gonna talk about this... about Robin, and Damian and what I've -"

Tim is quick to hold up a hand. "Dick, for the love of God. No more. Another day, I promise. We'll go over it all."

"That... okay. You got it, Tim." Dick agrees, and Tim smiles. Brothers could respect your boundaries, if they made the effort.

There wasn't much to tell about the events of the night prior, but Tim explained it anyway, at a very high level. He could only imagine how much of that Dick had personally witnessed.

"This is it, it's truth serum. He literally just dosed himself with it..." Tim says, looking at the telltale vial closely. Quantitative evidence.

"Or he could have just injected himself with saline and sold you another pack of lies. Not sure if you've picked up on this, Tim, but Bruce isn't above any kind of tactics if he thinks it'll get someone's guard down. You never know what he's thinking. Now I don't think that'd be nice to do to you, even if every word he told you is true. You thought you were on an even playing field with him." Dick muses. "But you know what, I'm playing devil's advocate here. It's not like Bruce to take advantage of someone compromised just because he wants information, unless the situation is life or death. That'd be a little too low for him to sink."

"It would be." Tim agrees placidly.

Dick says seriously, "I know it feels like you have to keep walls up around Bruce, Tim. I've been there and back. But sometimes letting your guard down is a good thing, when you're with people you trust. And you know he... he tries."

"Another day." Tim nods. There's too much to unpack right now.

But something has shifted, inverting, reminding Tim why he joined this game in the first place. He had a family here, a father, brothers, sisters, friends. He doesn't have all the answers, not yet, but he's opened a door, a door in his heart, that he'll want to keep open for later. Later, for a future without the Hit List, without a contingency for every contingency, without a to-do list that had him scrambling to find purpose in nonsensical surroundings. Walls had gone up brick by brick, and they'd have to come down the same way. It'd take time for his body and mind to realize Bruce was truly back, that he was no longer alone and adrift. In fact, that he never had been. Loss had spiraled him into despair, as it had Bruce. It had created a web of lies. _Oh, what tangled webs we weave._

That web would soon be undone. That life would soon be abandoned, but not forgotten. It had taught Tim a few things about growing up, after all. And as weird as his family was, at least he was the same type of weird. Weird, he could understand. This new rhythm, he could get used to. These fences, he would mend. There could be a new to-do list here...

Tim places the vial to the side and goes back to cataloging some archived reports.

"So you're not even going to analyze it? To see if he was telling the truth?" Dick asks.

Tim just looks back over his shoulder at Dick, flashing him a somewhat cryptic grin.

"Nope. I trust him."

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ oh tim tom.
> 
> Bye! No sequel. I'm done. Glad you liked it.
> 
> tumblr: astrologista


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